


POI Tumblr ficlets

by Toft



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Foot Massage, Kissing, M/M, tumblr ficlets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-24
Updated: 2016-07-01
Packaged: 2018-06-10 11:30:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6954733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Toft/pseuds/Toft
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some snippets of POI fic originally posted on tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“John.”

John’s head comes up from his hands as if it’s been jerked on a string. Perhaps it’s that which makes Harold put his hand on John’s shoulder, when he would not usually touch. Once it’s there, he squeezes a little, by way of an excuse. It’s awkward, but it passes as a way a man might touch his valued colleague or friend. John doesn’t react; he doesn’t move, doesn’t move away. He looks up into Harold’s face, and his eyes are tired and sad.

“I’m glad you’re all right,” Harold says. It sounds a little too loud, a little too forced, but it is what he intended to say, at least. John’s mouth twists, but all he says is,

“Thanks, Harold.”

Harold frowns. “Thanks for being glad?”

John’s half-smile loosens, turns into something a little less bitter. “Sure.”

Compelled by an impulse he doesn’t dare examine, Harold rubs his thumb back and forth across John’s shoulder, his thumbnail catching the collar. John’s chest rises and falls in an invisible sigh. Harold is standing over him, already close; it’s easy to lean forward and down a little, and a little more, to tell himself, _he’ll move away, he’ll move away and we’ll never speak of this again,_ and watch John’s face for the flinch. John doesn’t move away, doesn’t flinch. Harold brushes a kiss against his forehead, then draws back quickly before he dares to dart a glance at John’s face. He looks - raw, stripped bare. Harold’s breath stops.

“I am glad,” he says.

“Do it again,” John whispers.

Harold bends awkwardly and kisses his forehead, then presses his finger under John’s chin and John tilts his head up obediently with a sigh, his eyes fluttering closed. Harold kisses his cheek, the crowsfeet beside his eye, the corner of his mouth. Then John’s hands are clutching at his collar and his lips are pressed against Harold’s. He opens his mouth against Harold’s and licks at his tongue, hot and frighteningly intimate, and when Harold kisses back John groans softly, melts back against the couch and pulls Harold with him.


	2. these boots are made for walking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John/Harold, 1402, explicit, established relationship, d/s, mention of canon-typical violence, foot-worship

John is just out of the shower when Harold arrives. He always showers with the door open; when the door clicks behind Harold, he sees John's sharp look in the bathroom mirror. He probably has a gun in the bathroom with him. It half reassures Harold, half unsettles him, that John is always only a hair’s breadth from violence. Because of that, the power John gives Harold over him is intoxicating; it always was, even when they barely knew each other.

 

“Don’t get dressed,” Harold says to the open door. A moment later, John strolls out of the bathroom naked, and Harold pauses in undoing his tie. John smirks.

 

“Like what you see?”

 

“You know I do,” Harold says, his mouth dry, and John’s eyes darken.

 

“So what’s the plan, Harold?”

 

Suddenly struck with an idea, Harold drops his hands to his sides. “Take off my tie.”

 

John’s fingers brush against Harold’s throat as he unknots the silk, his hands quick and strong. (Two weeks ago, John choked a man almost to death with his hands, wrapped his fingers around his throat and squeezed until he confessed where he had hidden the knife from the Stowers murder.) This close, his eyes are slightly crossed with concentration. He seems to enjoy undressing Harold; he smooths down his shirt collar after he has removed the tie, and then looks at him questioningly, his fingers on the top buttons of his shirt.

 

“Now go and tie your hands to the bed with that,” Harold says. Something flares in John’s expression as he rubs the silk between his finger and thumb.

 

“Do you care if I ruin it?”

 

“Not at all.”

                                                                                                                                         

Harold undoes a few more buttons on his shirt, but doesn’t undress all the way. He sits on the end of the bed and watches John wrap the tie a few different ways around the headpost bars before he’s satisfied and can slip his wrists into the loops. He seems to have chosen a pattern that will maximally restrict his own movement. The stretch looks uncomfortable.

 

“I trust that won’t restrict your blood flow,” Harold says. John shoots him an amused look. His cock is half hard, swelling against his thigh. Harold looks, but doesn’t touch, and after a moment John shifts under his scrutiny.

 

“What did you have in mind?”

 

“I thought I might rub your feet,” Harold says. John’s face does something complicated.

 

“My _feet_?”

 

“Yes. If you want me to stop at any time, please use your safeword.” Harold lays a towel down on the end of the bed, then shuffles into a reasonably comfortable sitting position, and takes John’s left foot in his lap. He has a small tub of unscented moisturizer; it has a slightly waxy consistency, but becomes silkier between his fingers as it warms up. He starts to rub it into John’s heel, slathering it generously where he feels callouses. He supposes running around in dress shoes must be hard on his feet.

 

“This is weird, Harold, even for you.”

 

Harold is convinced that he could ask John for almost anything, to whip him or pierce him or tattoo him, and John would accept it without a blink. There’s something perversely satisfying in genuinely unnerving him. “Too much?”

 

“No,” John says, obviously uneasy. “Just, doesn’t seem all that fun for you. You sure you don’t want something else?”

 

“Yes, I’m sure,” Harold says. “I’m going to do what I want with your body today. This is what I want to do.”

 

John looks hard at his face, then settles into the restraints a little.

 

“Sure, whatever you want, Harold.”

 

He watches Harold with bemusement on his face as Harold rubs the moisturizer into his calloused heels, then starts to dig his thumb into the tough, abused muscles in earnest. John grunts when Harold digs the ball of his thumb into the muscle under the base of his big toe.

 

“There?” Harold says.

 

John says, “Yeah, I guess so,” and then adds, after a moment, “You’re not bad at this.”

 

“Thank you,” Harold says, and runs his thumbnail firmly down the arch of his foot. He smiles. He remembers being good at this. He finds he still likes it. There’s also something pleasing about paying such attention to a part of John’s body he’s never really looked at before. John’s toes are long and a little hairy, and two of the toenails on his left foot are misshapen, broken and grown in again wrong. He has a scar running along the top of that foot too, deep and white, with visible stitch marks. Harold runs his finger along it.

 

“Can’t feel much there,” John murmurs.

 

“Thank you for telling me,” Harold says, and leaves the scar alone.

 

John is much more relaxed by the time Harold starts on his other foot; he even sighs a few times. Harold rubs his ankles, finding the delicate bones under the skin, then he lifts John’s foot to his mouth and kisses the knob of bone there, and John’s eyelashes flutter.

 

When Harold sucks his toe into his mouth, John makes a harsh, surprised noise. His foot jerks too, but Harold is ready for that, and has a tight grip on his ankle.

 

“Harold,” he rasps. He’s staring.

 

Harold ignores him, and sucks again, experimentally. He scrapes his teeth against the pad of John’s big toe, and John’s head thumps back into the pillow. When he flicks his tongue against the web between John’s first and second toes, John’s leg jerks against the confines of his hands again, and he curses helplessly.

 

By the time Harold has made his way to John’s other foot (passing over the third and fourth toe of his right foot, in which it turns out John has no feeling at all), John is whining openly, squirming under Harold’s hands, his cock fully hard, curving up against his thigh. Somehow everything Harold is doing to him is a surprise - it’s quite clear nobody has ever done this to him before - and it’s more than exhilarating. Harold loves it, fiercely, and feels strangely protective of John at the same time. He kisses John’s heel, then, on a whim, licks a stripe along the sensitive arch of his foot; John’s toes curl, and John grinds out a moan between his teeth. Harold runs his fingers up John’s calf and finds that his muscles are rigid, presumably from trying not to kick Harold in the face. He hides his smile in kisses down the back of John’s foot, then goes back to suck hard on his big toe again, which wrenches a gasped “ _Fuck_ ” from John.

 

“Enough?”

 

“Uh,” John says, panting.

 

“Do you want more?” Harold says, curious.

 

John’s face is a study in conflict. Finally he shakes his head, just a fraction.

 

Harold’s back is beginning to hurt, anyway. He presses a last kiss to the top of John’s foot. “You can take your hands out now.” He crawls up the bed towards him, meaning to kiss him, but John slips his hands out of the restraints, grabs him by the shirt and hauls him up the bed on top of him.

 

“All right, all right, greedy,” Harold whispers, loving the feeling of John naked and hard underneath him, rutting against the fabric of his pants. He hadn’t been particularly aware of being aroused, but now he feels almost overwhelmed with hunger for him, caught up in his desperation. When Harold wraps his hand around his cock, John gasps against his throat and goes rigid beneath him; he comes after only a few strokes, spilling into Harold’s hand with a moan almost like a laugh. He pulls Harold down for a lush, sloppy kiss, then rolls him over and practically rips opens his shirt and pants with an urgency that leaves Harold breathless.

 

“What are you trying to do to me, Harold?” John murmurs into his ear, his hand pulling Harold towards the edge with rough and perfect strokes.

 

“I want to take you apart to find out how you work,” Harold whispers, his eyes tightly shut. “I want to know everything about you.”

 

John shimmies down between his legs and takes him into his mouth with long, hard sucks that have Harold grabbing at his hair and groaning out loud. He comes in John’s mouth, and John’s eyes stay fixed on his the whole time, hot and unreadable.

 


End file.
